


A Fool and His Doctor

by louisacar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dancing, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Rain, Slash, kind of ooc?, weather prediction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisacar/pseuds/louisacar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little drabbles I write in my freetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flamepoint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



               Sherlock eyed the shivering ball of fluff in John’s arms with severe distaste. In theory, he knew what it was, but he didn’t want to acknowledge the _sentiment_ that John had apparently allowed himself to manifest in the creature in his hands. He cradled it like it was his firstborn, staring down at it with big, stupid eyes and making small talk as if it could actually understand it.

               “Shhh…it’s alright now, wee thing, let’s get you warm…”

               Sherlock could _hear_ the doctorly gentleness that John had with kids being applied to the damned thing. It wasn’t a kid. It was a…thing. It was a thing that needed to go away.

               “John, where the _hell_ did you get that?”

               “What, you’ve never seen a kitten before, Sherlock?”

               A _cat_? Oh _hell_ no. “That’s not staying here.”

               “She isn’t an it. And where else is she going to go?”

               “Not here.”

               John let out an exasperated sigh and tried to move past Sherlock into the flat, but he wouldn’t budge from where he stood in the doorway. “Sherlock, I need to get through,” he said, his tone sharpening in annoyance. “That isn’t coming in the flat,” Sherlock replied with crossed arms, brooking no argument. John gave him a withering look, but the detective stared right back at him.

               Sensing the tension, a tiny mewl echoed between them, causing John’s face to fall back into a comforting expression. “Oh no, sweetie, hey…s’ alright, let’s get you inside and dry, yeah?” His syrupy words were punctuated with a pointed look at Sherlock, who stepped aside with a grumble. John went back to smiling down at the tiny kitten and cooing at it. Something about it irked Sherlock and he didn’t know why. He honestly didn’t care; he wanted it out of the flat and away from John.

               He leaned on the doorway to the kitchen and took grim satisfaction in the helpless look John gave the kitchen table that was cluttered with lab equipment before he decided that the counter as a suitable space to tend to the foolish thing. He snapped on a light overhead and wiped the countertop with his sleeve so that he could set the creature down with infinite tenderness. Even Sherlock was a little taken aback by the ease that John was able to calm and soothe it.

               John retrieved an acceptable towel hanging from the microwave and set to work drying off the kitten, which was drenched in rainwater. He was very gentle with the feet and head, making sure that it was fluffy and warm by the time he was done. Then he checked the fridge for milk he knew wouldn’t be there, sighed, then got out a bowl and put some water in it before setting it out for the kitten to drink.

               Sherlock blinked when he saw two things:

  1. The kitten was a flamepoint Siamese.
  2. John was staring at it with such open affection and fondness.



These two things, in tandem, were working to erode his objection to the cat staying in the flat. He considered Siamese cats to be the one of the few acceptable and intelligent breeds along with the Russian Blue and the Persian. And he enjoyed the softness that John was displaying so much that he didn’t realize how fucked he was until it was too late: he was going to let John keep the cat.

               When the kitten was safely curled up in a nest of John’s jumpers on the couch, John kept looking at him in a strange way. Sherlock looked at him with a crooked eyebrow in an unspoken question. John gave a sheepish smile and got up from his armchair to go over to Sherlock’s. He placed both hands on either armrests, caging Sherlock in, and leaned in close before he whispered, “Thank you for letting me keep her.”

               Sherlock, who had long ago tossed the book he was reading in a hopeful bid to the coffee table, pulled John by the beltloops of his jeans into his lap and kissed his forehead. “Not at all, my dear John.”

               “I know you were jealous of her.”

               Sherlock gave him a warning look.

               “Of how _I_ was looking at her, I mean,” John clarified.

               Sherlock leaned forward so that their foreheads were touching, and murmured, “Yes, I was.”

               “And yet you let me keep her.”

               “Yes.”

               “Why? It’s unlike you.”

               Sherlock gave him a genuine smile. “You looked so _happy,_ John.”

               John sat back with a furrowed brow, hands still clasped around the back of Sherlock’s neck. It took him a moment before an expression of understanding dawned on him. Once he realized what Sherlock was getting at, he leaned in closer than before and gave Sherlock a chaste, tender kiss before moving back to speak against his lips.

               “ _You_ make me more than happy, you make me feel _alive_. Every day, Sherlock. _Every day_.”

 


	2. Better than the Weather Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can predict when it will rain, without fail.

               John can predict when it will rain, without fail.

               At first, Sherlock reached for the obvious link between the change of humidity indicating precipitation and his scar. But when asked about it, John claimed that weather never really bothered his shoulder at all, just temperature sometimes. _Switch,_ Sherlock’s mind whispered before John finished his sentence. _Change, revise. Previous hypothesis possible, but not probable. Proceed?_

               Since the inquiry about John’s shoulder, Sherlock observed the standard procedure, checking the weather in advance to be able to tell when rain was due (though those damned weathermen were seldom right; he can’t even get his life together, just _look_ at his tie) so he could monitor at the correct time.

               It was always the morning of.

               If Sherlock was in bed when John woke up, the first thing he’d mumble after the whispered, “Mornin’, luv,” was “’s gonna rain today.”

               It was never a question, just a quiet statement of fact. Certainty. Confidence.

               It made Sherlock giddy that he couldn’t tell why.

               When it finally rained – and even in the late evening, when the weatherman said there was very little chance of rain – John would go to the window, look out onto London, and give a little happy sigh before going back to whatever he was doing. It took a while for Sherlock to realize that John could predict rain more accurately than the weather service.

               John couldn’t predict snow, Sherlock found in the winter that followed.

               After over six months of cataloging, cross-referencing, and indexing his findings, Sherlock drew a blank. In a last-ditch effort, he asked John if he had a sensitivity to humidity. John gave him a look of minor confusion. “What? No. Are you talking about the rain thing? You keep watching me like a hawk on rainy days.”

               “You can always tell when it will rain. You know before the weather people do on telly. You know better than them. Why?” Sherlock asked, wringing his hands in excitement. The answer!

               John gave a self-conscious, small smile, and replied, “I dunno, I can just tell. I didn’t think I was _that_ good at it. Why do you ask?”

               Sherlock was floored. There _must_ be a reason. Logically, this has to make sense, there must be a way to –

               “Why, does it bother you? I can stop—“

               An epiphany struck Sherlock, and he stood there, dumbfounded.

               This doesn’t make sense. It _refuses_ to make sense. And it’s so _John_ to _refuse to make sense_.

               Sherlock pulled John into a wordless embrace, kissing his forehead a few times before murmuring, “No. You’re illogical. And I love you.”

               John melted into the hug. The rain on the windowpanes made some dull little noise to fill the silence of the flat. They didn’t need it.

               “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi...I made another one. Is that okay?


	3. Hip Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns a new thing. He likes this thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit suggestive, ye be warned.

                Sherlock withheld a groan as he entered 221B Baker Street – the sounds of some stupid pop song wafting down the stairway told him that his ears were about to be molested by some technologically-grafted beat. Mrs. Hudson was out, so John felt liberated to keep the volume as high as it was. He trudged up the stairs, trying to pick out the song and identify it. His limited knowledge of pop culture ensured that he wouldn’t be able to, and he huffed in frustration.

                With no small amount of trepidation, he unlocked the door and opened it.

                The song was pounding through the flat, the vibrations of the bass hitting his feet. It was a computer-synthetic beat, and some weird noises besides were coming from the speakers attached to John’s laptop in the sitting room.

                _…up all night to get some, she's up all night for good fun, I'm up all night to get lucky…_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the cliché lyrics and resumed walking, then stopped dead at the sound overlapping that of the music: John’s voice. More importantly, John’s singing voice.

                John seldom sang to begin with, and that probability dropped to 4% if he was aware of Sherlock being within earshot. The singing was coming from the kitchen, and it was loud, though not as loud as the music itself.

                “ _We're up all night to get lucky, we're up all night to get lucky, we're up all night to get lucky, we're up all night to get lucky…_ ”

                Peeking around the doorway, he saw John moving about the kitchen with a cloth, seemingly dancing with only his hips. They were snaking from side to side as he ran the rag over the counter – cleaning it, Sherlock guessed.

                He was more interested in the movements John was making with his body; the most dancing he had seen from his was ballroom dancing that he had taught him for that one case. Sherlock, being experienced in ballroom dancing, had been ecstatic to teach him. This type of dancing that John was employing was beyond his knowledge. That didn’t mean he wasn’t hypnotized by it any less. The lazy rock of the hips, pelvis tilting to either side with the beat, coupled with John singing in that deep voice of his?

                Insta-rection.

                  _Dear god. John’s love of making up words is rubbing off on me. I must be more careful._

                Sherlock shifted, and the floorboard squeaked. He cursed as John whirled, bright red, and went stock-still. Sherlock offered a smile and murmured, “You sing well.”

                “I-um…yes. There’s a perfectly rational explanation to this-“

                “Save it,” Sherlock purred, prowling even closer to his boyfriend. “I don’t particularly care at the moment.”

                John laughed nervously, his back going flat against the fridge. “What’s this about, then?”

                “You. And your little _dance_.”

                “O-Oh, that? That wasn’t dancing, that was—“ 

                “Fucking sexy.”

                “ _Oh,_ ” John breathed.

                “Teach me that hip thing.”

                “O-Okay.”

                Sherlock pulled him into the bedroom, and John went about keeping his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is "Get Lucky" by Daft Punk.
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry for the lack of updating -- college hasn't been kind to my free time.  
> I'll keep trying.


End file.
